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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589352">Aziraphale's Unfortunate Adventure of the Secret Agent Mixup</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padawan_Writer/pseuds/Padawan_Writer'>Padawan_Writer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>But hey it's all in the name of humor, Crack, Food, Food critics and CIA agents, Funny, Humor, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Inaccurate CIA business, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Threat, One Shot, Towards Crowley, based on a prompt, mafia, two idiots one braincell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:15:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27589352</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padawan_Writer/pseuds/Padawan_Writer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>We meet clandestinely in a dark alley of AO3 to broker our fanfic deal. “I’ve got some quality crack for you here my friend,” I say, opening my trench coat to reveal a black dossier.</p><p>“Pitch it to me,” you growl.</p><p>“Aziraphale’s an anonymous food critic who gets mixed up with a secret agent. Crowley’s in the Mafia. I won’t spoil but it’s funny. Do we have a deal?”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Aziraphale's Unfortunate Adventure of the Secret Agent Mixup</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>“We have a deal,” you smile, taking the dossier.</p><p>“And will you leave kudos for me at the third alternative rendezvous?” I ask desperately.</p><p>You only smile and wink, and slip away into the night with the fanfiction tucked under your arm.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh, do be careful of the poor ducks my dear!” Aziraphale fussed.</p><p>Crowley only laughed maniacally as he remotely controlled his new toy boat around the St James’s Park Lake, terrorising the ducks and earning him glares from all the other grandmas and secret agents that met in the park.</p><p>At last he tired of it and the angel and the demon went to sit on one of the benches.</p><p>“I’ve been meaning to ask you, angel…”</p><p>“Yes?” said Aziraphale.</p><p>“What exactly <em>were</em> you doing that night in my restaurant in New York ten years ago?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Aziraphale had been stunned when the chef himself had emerged to make sure all was well with his meal when that chef had turned out to be Crowley. Not that he hadn’t been terribly pleased to see Crowley of course! But it threw his whole plan into disarray and meant mission abort. According to his employer’s strict laws, his only option now was to move across the country, never to return. Which was a shame really. Crowley’s fajita’s were particularly good.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably. Both of them had been out of the business for years—surely it couldn’t hurt to say now.</p><p>“I was working for the CIA,” he told Crowley at last.</p><p>Crowley whistled. “Phew, angel. That explains a lot.”</p><p>“I’m not sure that it does, actually.” Aziraphale said. “You see, there was a bit of a mixup.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>That evening, he’d arranged to meet the next inspector in Central Park. The inspector had turned up much earlier than expected, which Aziraphale had thought nothing of at the time. “I need you to take over staking out The Demon’s Diner,” Aziraphale had told him. “You see, I have just found out that the chef is a close, uh, friend of mine and I think he suspects me.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That won’t do at all!” The other man had agreed. “Where shall I send the report?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aziraphale had scribbled down the contact details for the area boss. “In an unofficial capacity, I must recommend the spicy fajitas.” He’d smiled, handing over the address. “Where am I to be sent next?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“San Francisco. The boss needs you to compile a list of likely hotspots, nothing too strenuous. Send it here.” He pulled out a plain business card.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They’d gone their separate ways after that, just in time to miss seeing two other CIA agents.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t with <em>that</em> CIA. I worked for the Culinary Institute of America, not the Central Intelligence Agency.” Aziraphale admitted.</p><p>“You what?”</p><p>“I couldn’t let you suspect. It would have compromised my anonymity as an inspector and personally knowing the chef is not allowed in case of bias. Michelin’s rules are very strict.” Aziraphale gestured palms outward to emphasise his point.</p><p>“Ngk. So how did you end up in San Francisco angel?”</p><p>“I thought I was being sent there by the Culinary Institute of America to scout out good restaurants. It turned out it was the Central Intelligence Agency who wanted me to find out some of the Mafia “hotspots”. Most unfortunate and upsetting.” </p><p>Crowley laughed. “Oh the mafia have very good taste in food, trust me. You weren’t far off the mark.”</p><p>Aziraphale looked shocked. “How would you know?”</p><p>Crowley winked.</p><p>“Come to think of it, they <em>did</em> hardly bat an eyelid at the list of wonderful restaurants I sent the CIA manager. I had supped at all of them, and the food was simply marvellous. I told him they were well worth inspecting.”</p><p>“And what did he say?” </p><p>“He said that one of the restaurants on the list had also been mentioned by other agents, and he asked me to survey and report.” Aziraphale said.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>This restaurant was particularly renowned for its calzone, so Aziraphale ordered exactly that. Mushroom, three kinds of cheese, and pepperoni stuffed inside a perfect golden crust. It was magnificent. So magnificent in fact that Aziraphale completely failed to notice the meeting of three sharp men in three sharp suits at the table next to him. Oblivious to the murmured plans of necessary sins, he sipped the white wine and took surreptitious notes under the table. Or not so surreptitious as it turned out. One of the sharp suits spied him scribbling about the layers of flavour, the chef’s style, the texture of the cheese and suspected something darker and fouler was at play. Who could suspect such a cherubic angel? These men, and these men harboured murder in their hearts. Or in the case of Aziraphale, inconvenient and painful discorporation.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One of the mafia captains accosted him. “What are you doing?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aziraphale, who was not allowed to be suspected of restaurant critiquing, hastily and ineffectively tried to conceal his notes. “Nothing. Just enjoying a simply lovely calzone. My compliments to the chef.” He smiled.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The man stood up, towering over Aziraphale in his personal space. “Then why are you taking notes, my friend?” he asked pleasantly with danger in his voice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Mm—no reason?” Aziraphale scrambled for an excuse and as so often when confronted by bosses in suits, came up with nothing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The other two stood up and advanced on the angel. “You take notes on our meetings, no?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Aziraphale looked downright offended at that. “No! No not at all!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The second man spoke up. “You are not doing a good job of making yourself inconspicuous. I for one suspect, hm, funny business.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Very—funny business.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh dear, I’m so confused,” said poor Aziraphale.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I think it would be wise for you to leave now and never to come back. Never again, my friend.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, but I haven’t even half finished my calzone yet!” Aziraphale protested. “You can’t just chuck me out!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I think you’ll find we can,” said the third with a glint in his eye.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Uh what’s up guys!” A cheery voice barged in. “Sorry I’m late, had a bit of trouble on the road. Oh, hi Aziraphale! What are you doing here?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Crowley!” Exclaimed Aziraphale with deep relief, and something more than relief. “Do you know these men?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Crowley?” Exclaimed the men with confusion. “Do you know this man?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yup and yup. I’m friends with their boss, and this dear beautiful cherubic angel is my friend too. And that means he’s under our protection, d’ya hear?”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Since you ask, angel, yes I did have Mafia connections. That was the Mafia that nearly got you in that San Francisco restaurant.”</p><p>Aziraphale’s eyes grew round. “That was the Mafia? You saved me from the Mafia? You’re in the <em>Mafia?</em>” </p><p>“Was. Was in the Mafia. ‘M not anymore.” Crowley shifted uncomfortably. “Got kicked out.”</p><p>“My dear—what happened?”</p><p>Crowley overpronounced every syllable of his next phrase. “Sus<em>pected</em> homosexual shenanigans.”</p><p>Aziraphale blinked. “Only suspected?”</p><p>“Yes only suspected! It’s not like I’d sleep with just any old mafia member you know? My gayness has <em>ssstandards.</em>”</p><p>“What kind of standards?” Aziraphale didn’t know what made him say that but he was glad he had.</p><p>“Oh you know,” Crowley said expansively, “sweet and soft, but deep down he’s a bit of a bastard because perfection is too—saccharine.”</p><p>There was a small silence between them, punctuated by Aziraphale throwing the last of his bread to the ducks and getting up to leave.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Crowley asked.</p><p>“Why, to have dinner with you of course. There’s a little Michelin star restaurant just down the road which I may or may not have had a hand in rating. I can assure you the foie-de-gras is simply exquisite.”</p><p>“Sounds good angel, I’m in,” Crowley smiled.</p>
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